


Do Ut Des: I Give so That You May Give

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Harry, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Evil Harry Potter, Gen, Master of Death Harry Potter, Parallel Universes, Powerful Harry, Reincarnation, Time Travel, Vampire Harry, Werewolf Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 05:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "You are here because you cannot die. You have mastered the artifacts; the wand … the cloak … the stone…” Harry wanted to cry. “Are you saying I’m immortal because of some stupid artifacts?” Once again, the creature chuckled, though he felt that the being was more amused with him than anything and the raven-haired boy took great offense to that. “By mastering these items, you have both mastered my namesake and became it … you are Death.”





	Do Ut Des: I Give so That You May Give

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd. Sorry folks. My beta is Grammarly.  
> Death's mystical voice will always be italicized. Parseltongue will be bold but he will be multi-lingual due to Death's knowledge.

It was to be his tomb. His final resting place – his prison. He found it ironic that his end would be where it all started, where his life truly began and his fate set in misshapen stone. The ruins of Hogwarts, never to be stepped foot in again except this final time. He’d struggled, of course. But it was all in vain, he was too tired, too weak to defend himself against the Ministry Auror’s – and his friends, his family.

  
They had accused him of _awful_ things. Things he’d never do, never even think about doing. He experienced his own pain, his own abuse at the hands of his blood no less. He was a peaceful soul, he’d never hurt anyone and even with the death of Voldemort, he felt an ache in his chest. Much like Albus Dumbledore, he’d firmly believed there to be another way. Perhaps joining the Horcruxes with its maker once more, perhaps simply snapping his yew wand and punishing him similar to that of his Death Eaters – _Azkaban was a prison, after all_ , a tower created to house the most wicked and despicable. Voldemort certainly fit into that category, he thought.

  
But no. They sent a child to do an adult’s job, to do the Ministries job, and once that job was completed and he lived, he was welcomed back with a sort of weariness the public gave to those claiming Imperious; he’d thought nothing of it. The public was a fickle thing, after all. It wasn’t until years later, after the Battle of Hogwarts, that he was captured, tricked by both the Ministry and his friends alike. He still sneered at the memory of their determined faces. He’d begged, pleaded. Tried to appeal to their better nature. What about Teddy? His children? What would become of them? He was a father, a godfather, and he had rights – rights they made abundantly clear they didn’t care about.

  
He asked why as they suppressed his magic, voice hoarse and eyes a vivid green rimmed red from betrayal and anguish. “You’re not aging, Harry,” replied Hermione, not an ounce of guilt evident in her hazel eyes. She eyed him like a specimen under a muggle microscope and he absolutely hated it. “the Ministry suspects that you created a Horcrux.” He didn’t, he knew he didn’t. “Or that you’re a dark creature of some sort – a Dhampire, or maybe even a dark elf.” Neither of which had been seen in more than a millennium. He stood still, willing away his magic at the hands of his captors – because that’s what they were. His kidnappers. He’d begged a final time as his tomb closed, the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets. The only positive aspect was that he felt the loving embrace of Hogwarts sentient magic.

  
He had three weeks to live. No food, but plenty of water. He’d made careful work to not relieve himself anywhere water was kept. He’d had food in terms of the dead Basilisk laying beneath his feet, tempting him much like Tantalus and his never-ending punishment. He had food, yet he could not get to it. He’d been chained to the wall, like a guard dog protecting its property. His deathbed would be atop the head of Salazar Slytherin – who very much looked like Merlin, in his opinion, and cackled at the hilarity of it all. His laugh sounding every inch like the Black-Lestrange matriarch who defiled the Longbottom House overtly so, not that he cared. Being abandoned and betrayed as he was.

  
Dementors were one thing, but being alone in the dark with nothing to ease his turbulent mind was another; his mind was breaking under the strain. There were muggle studies done on this, he knew. About the effects of lack of social interaction, of sensory deprivation. Though he was starving to death, so the delusions of an empty stomach could very well be the reason for his rocky mind as well. It wasn’t until he felt it – witnessed it – that he knew for sure, really. It felt like ice collapsing under the glare of a hot sun, wand cracking under the strain of unsuited magic. It was as if a light had been switched off, or at least balanced in the middle, between on and off which caused it to flicker every so often. He clutched his head, a hoarse scream erupting from his cracked lips. His own magic appeared after weeks of being inactive, of feeling cold and dead. It burned through his veins and bit at his bones. He would’ve felt relief if it didn’t hurt so much. He felt like he was being burned alive and perhaps he was. Inactivity, late inheritance, forced suppression, death, all of these could’ve been a substitute for why his magic acted the way it did, yet none of them were correct.

  
It had been his death that caused the fall of Hogwarts officially, the backlash of Harry Potter’s agitated magic and Hogwarts own causing the building’s wards to quiver before ultimately failing, revealing herself to all, muggles and magical alike. Minerva later found out from Gringotts’s curse breakers and diagnostic team that they failed by Hogwarts own volition. Bill Weasley informed her, face grim and eyes alit with outrage that she changed her initial incentive created by the Founders Four. She was no longer a school, but a tomb. Minerva wavered herself, delicate hand moving to cover the gasp that wanted to release from her lips.

  
“Are you sure?” She questioned, face stricken. “I am.” Said Bill, holding up a thick piece of parchment. “See this?” The redhead pointed to a blue spot hidden within the depths of the school. “That’s – that’s a body. Of who, we don’t know. Can’t tell. There’s to much magical backlash in terms of the wards and we can’t differentiate which are hers, which are past students, and which are … the bodies.”

  
It wasn’t until months later when Minerva finally gave up trying to re-establish wards that refused to be set. Muggles by then had begun to realize a castle stood where one hadn’t been before. Exploration and then excavation and finally, recovering the body of one Harry J. Potter. Minerva was still horrified at the thought that the missing boy-hero had died beneath her feet – literally – and she knew absolutely nothing about it.

 

* * *

   
_‘Does it hurt?’_ He recalled asking his godfather, fear, and apprehension evident in his green eyes. _‘Dying?’_ Replied Sirius softly. _‘Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.’_ He soothed. Sirius had lied, Harry thought. Death hurt. It hurt like a bitch. Even when he witnessed the familiar white train station, he still recalled the pain his body had gone through. Of course, death itself didn’t hurt. But dying? Most definitely. He stood from the bench, hand unconsciously rubbing his chest as if to ease the echo of the pain away from his aching soul. It was only the feeling of being watched did he realize he wasn’t alone in the empty train station, he twirled around, hand unconsciously reaching for his wand only to realize he didn’t have it. Which, of course, he didn’t. He recalled Ron snapping it before his very eyes, after all.

  
“Who are you?” Harry questioned curiously. “Why am I here?”

  
The being – creature – for it certainly couldn’t be human shifted easily. It stood tall, at seven feet. If Harry had to hazard a guess, he’d say that this thing reminded him of a Dementor, though it didn’t give off the icy feeling of despair and he couldn’t catch the face of said creature. It chucked in reply, it’s voice gravely and demonic. It caused the hairs on the Saviors body to stand on edge though the didn’t feel any malicious intent from the creature. _“I am Death.”_ It replied, its voice was numerous each in different octaves, echoes trailing after the other. The most dominant voice rumbled against the others. It reminded him of the Chamber of Secret’s opening. Stone grinding against stone. _“You are dead.”_.

  
Harry wanted to snort, “Yeah, I surmised that much. But why am I here? Why aren’t I going into the light?” _Why am I not joining my family?_ was left unsaid but the thought spoke volumes against his working vocal cords. _“You are here because you cannot die. You have mastered the artifacts; the wand … the cloak … the stone…”_ Harry wanted to cry. “Are you saying I’m immortal because of some stupid artifacts?” Once again, the creature chuckled, though he felt that the being was more amused with him than anything and the raven-haired boy took great offense to that. _“By mastering these items, you have both mastered my namesake and became it … you are Death.”_ The shadows that swirled around the creature reached for Harry, entwining itself around the boy’s limbs. Rather than feel undying fear, he felt a sort of calmness wash over him. He felt safe, secure. “But aren’t you Death?” He questioned, quirking an eyebrow. _“I am,”_ Death rumbled. _“But yet so are you … We are one in the same … I am you, and you … are me.”_

  
Harry huffed, he didn’t want to get into it. It seemed confusing and while the boy was smart, he was no genius. Especially not in terms of the power of time and death. “Okay. So, what am I doing here then? If I can’t die, shouldn’t I just wake up and be good as new or something?” It was a valid question and Harry felt Death’s approval over the link shared between them. _“Yes. But to access me … Death magic … you had to die before accepting immortality … once we become one, we will be omnipresent … you will be time. The past … present … future … other worlds will be open to us. Once we merge and you open your eyes, you will have my knowledge … my power, my life.”_

  
Though his mind seemed mended within the realm of Death, he knew that he had to have at least a few screws loose to actually consider merging with the other – though it wasn’t like he had a choice really. So, he thought about it, the betrayal of his friends. The scorn he’d received throughout his life by the papers and Ministry members alike. The more he thought about it, the more appealing things became. In the end, he accepted his fate, more or less. Once he got his revenge he was sure to realize what he’d done and become angry but that was for another time, he supposed.

  
With a nod of determination, he raised his eyes, looking into Death’s inhuman form. “All right, how do we go about … _merging_?” The creature didn’t even give Harry enough time to think more deeply on the deal before a flash of light blurred his vision and he felt his core filling with the presence of Death magic. Soon the bright light fizzled out and Harry with it. Where he ended, he honestly had no idea but he was sure it’d be a fun ride.

**Author's Note:**

> I am unsure if I will be continuing with this story if you think it has potential, please comment! Don't be afraid to give me some ideas either, as I honestly don't know where this is going. I'm kinda winging it.


End file.
